Shayne Clarke
For Christmas 2010
Twas the night before Christmas…well actually that’s not really true. It started the day after Christmas last year. I got up early, took all my Christmas down—it had been up since the day after Halloween—cooked a big batch of pancakes and put them in the oven to keep warm until everyone woke up, and then I headed out the door for the stores.
I wanted to be first in line for the returns. My strategy was to catch the clerks while they were still fresh, thinking they might overlook the fact that some of my receipts got sucked up with the ribbons and shredded wrapping paper. I prefer cash back instead of one of those in-store gift cards that spends months surfing in my purse.
My strategy worked: I got there first, got the fresh clerk, and ended up with cash. Then I saw the After Christmas sales. Couldn’t resist. I had some cash, why not? Maybe I could get a jump on this year’s Christmas. The wrapping paper was a smart buy because when was the last time you saw wrapping paper with an expiration date? Exactly. And it never goes out of style. The same with the Scotch tape. Clear is clear and is always in fashion.
Then I got the brilliant-at-the-time idea of buying presents for my family for this Christmas. 20% off everything in the store. I took the gamble on basketball shoes, video games and male teenage cologne.
Just a week ago as I was putting the presents under the tree, feeling so caught up and smug for my purchases last December 26th, I asked our sophomore son what size basketball shoe he wore--14. 14?! Who wears a size 14 basketball shoe that is not making millions? I guess my son. I returned the shoes and because it had been more than six months, I got store credit.
I didn’t fair very well on the video game either. I guess Kill Your Parents III is the latest and I had gotten Kill Your Parents II. I think I’m fine with the cologne. It’s called Essence of NASCAR and that never goes out of style.
And then I had my little incident in the SuperMart parking lot. Where’s the Christmas spirit? I just barely bump this guy’s BMW and he jumps out of his car screaming like mad fans at a hockey game. He yelled at me until he was out of breath. All I did was smear some road mud on his pearly white bumper. It’s not like I set his air bag off.
So much for shopping.
It’s still the night before Christmas--3:46 a.m. to be exact. Earl went to bed after he duct-taped the sled thing together. I guess all the nuts and bolts didn’t come in the box. He was muttering something about his blood pressure pills when he left and hoping to dream of dancing sugar plums.
I know I have to get up in a few hours myself--we still have Joey who believes in Santa even though Kevin proved it otherwise on the Internet--but I can’t seem to move. I’m still recovering from our Christmas Eve traditions with Earl’s family.
Every year it’s the same--a command performance at his Mother’s house. We don’t just read from Luke, we act it out: full costumes, music from an old cassette, and the nativity with live animals—not donkeys and sheep, but cats and dogs and Melba’s parrot who has been trained to say, Happy New Year, in the same voice as Frosty the Snowman. It’s cute the first time you hear it, but the hapless bird repeats it over and over all year.
And then there is the update from Earl’s uncle Ron, who didn’t go to college but has read more books than a college librarian to make up for it. He usually has something obscure to say about the town of Bethlehem, taxation systems of the ancient world, or who the three wise men were. One year he was sure there were pre-earth ministers who later became the Three Nephites. This year he enlightened us on which galaxy the New Star came from. He kept his presentation to just under an hour and a half. My kids were balancing spoons on their noses.
Aunt Bethel, or “Aunt Crazy Neck” as my boys call her due to an abnormal growth on the back of her neck, was there in fine form as well. She offered her “famous” toffee peanut brittle. Bless her heart. I remember it being tasty the first year when she made that huge batch, but it’s been several years now and she still distributes the surplus every year.
My kids once put a piece of her toffee in a glass of water to see how long it would take to dissolve. I threw it out after a week.
After Uncle Ron’s star trek, we spent 45 minutes listening to the men argue about what “cattle lowing” meant. I checked out 15 seconds after the first moo.
Finally, just before midnight we arrived home. This is always a favorite time for Earl because our thoughtful neighbors often leave treats on our doorstep. His favorite is the gooey marshmallow chocolate popcorn from the Kirbys.
Tonight was no exception. There at the door was a small assortment of food gifts. Earl bounced out the door and up to the step only to stop short. Someone had gotten there first.
Gilligan, the neighborhood dog whose theme song is Born Free and who Earl calls IP Freely, apparently got there first. Gilligan had helped himself to a fine plate of hot chocolate chip, caramel, fudge and marshmallow brownies.
When he saw Earl, Gilligan bolted off with the last brownie in his marshmallow mouth, stopping on his way off the porch to spray our little Oregon Grape bush who tries desperately to survive the hourly nitrogen sprinkle.
Earl bought himself a bb gun this year for an early Christmas present, and ran off to find it. I told him it would shoot his eye out. He said Gilligan has a greater chance of being a pirate for Halloween than he did.
We finally got everyone and everything in the house and settled down. I put the book on exercise and nutrition I got from Earl’s mother—I get one every year—under the tree and sent the kids to bed.
After Earl was gone and I was done playing Santa’s helper, I sat down on the couch with a cup of warm hot chocolate. I looked at the gifts and up at our tree trying to just focus on one ornament at a time. Then I closed my eyes and tried to sift all the hectic out of my life. It was Christmas tomorrow. I was finally ready—at least my gifts were all ready.
After who knows how long, I opened my eyes and stared down at my favorite little nativity. It’s the one I’ve had since I was a child. The first present I remember from my mother. The colors are a worn pastel fading just a little each year.
The closer I looked, I noticed something wrong. Someone had broken and tried to repair the little baby Jesus. I guess they thought I wouldn’t notice. I did. Both hands, those little hands that seem to reach up to Mary and Joseph had broken off and were glued back on, but they were off just a little.
“Great,” I thought, reflecting back on my Christmas until then, “Now I have an imperfect Jesus.” I’ll have to throw him away and buy another one. I could get a good buy at the after Christmas sales if I have the nerve to go out.
But this one wouldn’t be available. It hasn’t been available for thirty years. This one was from my childhood and they don’t sell childhood at the after Christmas sales.
I started rubbing my temples. The after Christmas sales. I wasn’t ready for the after Christmas sales, and then I felt bad for spending the night before Christmas thinking about the day after Christmas. What to do with my broken and patched up Jesus? I looked down at his little cherubic face, rosy cheeks and outstretched hands which would never be the same.
There would always be something wrong with his hands. And then it struck me. The Jesus I worshipped in church and tried to during the week had imperfect hands. They were scarred.
Suddenly, I was filled with Easter thoughts, thinking of how those scars got there. I was thinking of his death instead of his birth and then back to the manger, his birth and the little broken hands.
I couldn’t help but think of the gift his imperfect hands represented. The gift of eternal life, the promise of peace both on earth and in heaven and in the future heaven.
At that moment I felt my own peace on earth, even if just for tonight. The stores are closed, the cars are parked, and the kids are asleep. I knew that across the world wars would take the night off and peace would be born and live a little life all on its own.
It was a silent night there on my couch as I looked down at my little imperfect Jesus. The same who represents the most perfect to ever walk the earth.
Yes, my little Jesus now reached up with imperfect hands, but I felt them reach up to me as perfectly as ever in my life.
It was a silent night, that night before Christmas. A holy night indeed. And I slept sweetly and dreamed of taking my turn to hold the little Jesus, Mary’s perfect son, and to let my soul praise him as I put my lips to his forehead.
